Assassin's Creed: Revelations (15 page)

Ezio did as he was bidden, moving back to a strategic position on the shady side of the courtyard, with a good view of the trapdoor. He exchanged his left-hand hidden-blade for his adapted pistol harness, preferring to retain the hookblade for close combat. Yusuf, near the street, threw his cherry bomb to the far side of the courtyard, and disappeared.

There was a noise as loud as the Devil’s Fart, and Ezio, though he’d covered his ears beneath his hood firmly, still had the aftershock in his head. He shook it to clear it, and as he did so, ten Templars, led by a ruddy-nosed captain, burst from the trapdoor into the sunlight, looking around them in panic. Ezio moved in swiftly and had cut three down before they’d had time to react. Using his hookblade, he was able to kill another three in the next minute of combat. Three more ran off, as they heard the sound of two more explosions, followed shortly afterward by the faint smell of smoke in the breeze.

“Perfect timing, Yusuf,” murmured Ezio to himself.

The captain of the cohort stood and confronted Ezio. A brawny, walleyed man with well-used black shoulder armor over his dark red tunic, he held a heavy Damascus in his right hand and a wicked-looking curved dagger, with a barbed point, in his left.

“Rip and slit,” said the captain in a hoarse voice. “I hook you in with the dagger and slit your throat with the sword. You’re as good as dead, Assassin.”

“It’s really high time you Templars joined the sixteenth century,” replied Ezio, raising his left arm and springing his pistol into his hand. He fired, thinking that at that range he really couldn’t miss, even left-handed, and, sure enough, the ball sank into the bone straight between the captain’s eyes.

The captain was still sinking to his knees as Ezio sprang across the courtyard, leapt onto one of the barrels for purchase, and used the hookblade to surge to the top of the tower.

The flare Yusuf had told him of had not been discovered or disturbed. There was a little mortar, and Ezio loaded the flare into it. A moment later, it streaked high into the sky, trailing a vivid streak of flame and violet smoke.

By the time he reached the foot of the tower again, Yusuf was waiting for him.

“No wonder you are our Mentor,” said the Seljuk Assassin. “You could not have timed that better.” He beamed in triumph. “The Templars are withdrawing on all fronts.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The Bazaar Den was remarkably neat and tidy, given its recent occupation by the Templars.

“Any damage?” Ezio asked Yusuf, as his Turkish comrade stared at the ceiling.

“Not that I can see. Byzantine Templars may be bad hosts, but they are decent tenants. Once they capture a location, they like to keep it intact.”

“Because they intend to stay?”

“Exactly!” Yusuf rubbed his hands. “We must take advantage of our little victories to prepare you further for the fight against our Greek friends,” he said. “I’ve shown you how to use some of our bombs. But it’ll be even better if you know how to make them.”

“Is there someone here who can teach me?”

“Of course! The master himself! Piri Reis.”

“Piri Reis is . . . one of us?”

“In a manner of speaking. He likes to keep himself aloof. But he’s certainly on our side.”

“I thought he was more of a mapmaker,” said Ezio, remembering the map of Cyprus he’d been given by Ma’Mun.

“Mapmaker, seafarer, pirate—though these days he’s rising swiftly through the ranks of the Ottoman Navy—he’s a pretty good all-arounder. And he knows Istanbul—Kostantiniyye—like the back of his hand.”

“Good—because there’s something I’d like to ask him about the city that he may know. Apart from how to make bombs. When can I meet him?”

“No time like the present. And we don’t have any to lose. Are you all right after that little skirmish? Need some rest?”

“No.”

“Good! I’ll take you to him now. His workroom isn’t far from here.”

 

 

Piri Reis—Admiral Piri—had a small set of second-story, open-plan rooms on the north side of the Grand Bazaar, whose tall windows threw a cold, clear light on the handful of map tables neatly arranged on the teak floors of a cramped studio. Equally neatly spread out on the tables were maps of a greater number and variety than Ezio had ever seen before, and, seated by them, a handful of assistants were diligently working in silence. The western and southern walls of the workroom were festooned with more maps, all neatly pinned up and squared-off to one another. Five large globes, one in each corner and one in the center of the room, completed the picture. The globes were also works in progress, and freshly inked-in areas showed the latest discoveries added.

The western wall was also covered with detailed technical drawings, expertly accomplished—but these were, as Ezio saw at a glance, designs for bombs. He was able to read enough, as he passed through the room toward where Piri sat, to see that the bomb drawings were divided into categories: Lethal, Tactical, Diversionary, and Special Casings. An alcove in the wall was big enough to contain a worktable, and behind it, arranged with precision, a number of metalworkers’ tools were placed on shelves.

This was quite a contrast to the chaos in which Leonardo loved to work, Ezio thought, smiling to himself at the memory of his friend.

Yusuf and Ezio found Piri himself at work at a large drafting table directly under the windows. Six or seven years younger than Ezio, he was a tanned, weather-beaten, healthy, and robust figure of a man, wearing a blue silk turban, under which a strong face, currently bearing an expression of intense concentration, looked out at the work through piercing, clear grey eyes. His luxuriant brown beard was neatly trimmed, though worn long, covering the collar of the high-necked, silver brocade tunic he wore, with baggy blue trousers and plain wooden clogs.

He gave Ezio an appraising glance, which Ezio returned, as Yusuf made the introductions.

“What’s your name again?” said Piri.

“Ezio. Ezio Auditore da Firenze.”

“Ah yes. I thought for a moment Yusuf said ‘Lothario.’ Didn’t hear the difference.” He looked at Ezio, and Ezio could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye. Had Ezio’s reputation—in one department at least—preceded him?

He thought he was going to like this man.

“I have seen your work—your maps, anyway,” Ezio began. “I had a copy of the one you made for Cyprus.”

“Did you?” replied the sailor, gruffly. Clearly, he didn’t like having his work interrupted. Or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.

“But it is another aspect of your expertise I have come to seek your advice about today.”

“That was a good map, the one of Cyprus,” said Piri, ignoring Ezio’s remark. “But I’ve improved it since. Show me yours.”

Ezio hesitated. “I don’t have it anymore,” he confessed. “I gave it—to a friend of mine.”

Piri looked up. “Very generous of you,” he said. “Do you know what my maps are worth?”

“Indeed. But I owed that man my life.” Ezio hesitated again. “He’s a seaman, like yourself.”

“Hmn. What’s his name? I might have heard of him.”

“He’s a Mamluk. Goes by the name of Al-Scarab.”

Piri suddenly beamed. “That old rogue! Well, I hope he puts it to good use. At least he knows better than to try anything on us.”

Then he turned his eye on Yusuf. “Yusuf! What are you doing still standing there? Don’t you have anything better to do? Take yourself off and leave your friend with me. I’ll see that he has everything he needs. Any friend of Al-Scarab is a friend of mine!”

Yusuf grinned and took his leave. “I knew I’d be leaving you in safe hands,” he said as he left.

When they were alone, Piri became more serious. “I know who you are, Ezio, and I have a pretty good idea why you are here. Will you take some refreshment? There’s coffee, if you like it.”

“I have acquired a taste for it at last.”

“Good!” Piri clapped his hands at one of his assistants, who nodded and went to the back of the workshop, to return soon afterward with a brass tray holding a serpentine pot, with minute cups, and a dish of soft amber-colored sweetmeats, which Ezio had never tasted before.

“I remember Al-Scarab from my own privateering days,” Piri said. “We fought side by side at both battles of Lepanto a dozen years ago or so, under the flag of my uncle Kemal. No doubt you’ve heard of him?”

“Yes.”

“The Spaniards fought us like tigers, but I didn’t think so much of the Genoese or the Venetians. You’re a Florentine, yourself, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re a landlubber.”

“My family were bankers.”

“On the surface, yes! But something far more noble underneath.”

“As you know, banking does not run in my blood as seafaring does in yours.”

Piri laughed. “Well said!” He sipped his coffee, wincing as he burned his lips. Then he eased himself off his stool and stretched his shoulders, laying down his pen. “And that’s quite enough small talk. I see you’re already looking at the drawings I’m working on. Make any sense of them?”

“I can see they’re not maps.”

“Is it maps you’re after?”

“Yes and no. There is one thing I want to ask you—about the city—before I talk about anything else.”

Piri spread his hands. “Go ahead.”

Ezio took Niccolò Polo’s book,
The Secret Crusade
, out of his side wallet, and showed it to Piri.

“Interesting,” said the seaman. “Of course I know all about the Polos. Read Marco’s book. Exaggerates a bit, if you ask me.”

“I took this from a Templar at Masyaf. Yusuf knows of it and of its contents.”

“Masyaf? So you have been there.”

“It mentions the five keys to Altaïr’s library. From my reading of it, I see that Altaïr entrusted the keys to Niccolò, and that he brought them here and concealed them.”

“And the Templars know this? So it’s a race against time.”

Ezio nodded. “They’ve already found one, hidden in the cellars of the Topkapi Palace. I need to recover it and find the other four.”

“So—where will you begin?”

“Do you know the location of the Polos’ old trading post here?”

Piri looked at him. “I can tell you exactly where it was. Come over here.” He led the way to where a large, immensely detailed map of Constantinople hung on the wall in a plain gold frame. He peered at it for an instant, then tapped a spot with his index finger. “It’s there. Just to the west of Haghia Sofia. No distance from here. Why? Is there a connection?”

“I have a hunch I need to follow.”

Piri looked at him. “That is a valuable book,” he said, slowly.

“Yes. Very valuable, if I’m right.”

“Well, just make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

He was silent for a long moment, thinking. “Be careful when you find the Polos’ old trading post,” he said. “You may find more than you bargain for there.”

“Does that remark beg a question?”

“If it does, it is a question to which I have no answer. I just ask you to be wary, my friend.”

Ezio hesitated before taking Piri further into his confidence. “I think my quest will start in that place. I am sure there must be something hidden there that will give me my first clue.”

“It is possible,” Piri said, giving nothing away. “But heed my warning.”

Then he brightened, rubbing his hands vigorously, as if to chase away demons. “And now that we’ve settled that matter, what else can I help you with?”

“I’m sure you’ve guessed. I am here on an Assassin mission, perhaps the most important ever, and Yusuf tells me you would be prepared to show me how to make bombs. The special ones you’ve developed here.”

“Ach, that Yusuf has a big mouth.” But Piri looked serious again. “I cannot compromise my position, Ezio. I am Senior Navigator in the Sultan’s Navy, and this is my current project.” He waved his hands at the maps. Then he winked. “The bombs are a sideline. But I like to help my true friends in a just cause.”

“You may rely on my discretion. As I hope I may on yours.”

“Good. Follow me.”

So saying, Piri led the way to the spacious alcove on the west wall. “The bombs are actually part of a naval research project, too,” he continued. “Through my soldiering, I have gained an appreciation for artillery and explosives. And that has served the Assassins well. It gives us an edge.”

He waved his hand at the technical drawings. “I have developed many kinds of bombs, and some are reserved for the use of your Brotherhood alone. As you can see, they are divided into four main categories. Of course, they are expensive, but the Brotherhood has always understood that.”

“Yusuf told me the Assassins here are short of funds.”

“Most good causes usually are,” replied Piri. “But Yusuf is also resourceful. I gather you know how to use these weapons?”

“I had a crash course.”

Piri looked at him levelly. “Good. Well, as Yusuf evidently promised you, if you want to craft your own bombs, I can show you.”

He went round the table and picked up two pieces of strange-looking metal lying on it. Ezio, leaning forward curiously, reached for a third.

“Ah ah ah! Don’t touch that!” warned Piri. “One wrong move and BANG! The building comes down.”

“Are you serious?”

Piri laughed. “The look on your face! Look, I’ll show you.”

For the next few hours, Piri Reis took Ezio through every basic step involved in constructing each kind of bomb and the materials involved.

Ezio learned that each bomb contained the fundamental ingredient of gunpowder, but that not all were designed to be lethal. He’d already had experience of lethal explosives when attacking Cesare Borgia’s fleet in Valencia four years earlier, and Yusuf had shown him how to use diversionary bombs which created smoke screens, thunderclaps, appalling odors, and apparent pennies from heaven. Piri now demonstrated other applications. Among the bombs with lethal effect were those using coal dust, which added a heavy blasting power to the gunpowder, and fragmentation bombs whose shrapnel killed messily over a wide range. Bombs containing sachets of lambs’ blood spattered their opponents with it, causing them to think they had been wounded, and panicking them. Another type of nonlethal explosive, useful in delaying pursuers, was the caltrop bomb, which showered numbers of twisted-together nails in the path of an oncoming enemy. Perhaps the most unpleasant were the bombs that used either datura powder or deadly nightshade.